The First of the Year

I forgot to turn off my alarm on Saturday night and off it went at 5:45 Sunday morning. Not that it woke me up. Lately I’ve been conscious well before the alarm. Not sure what’s going on there.

Anyhoo, it was 80 degress on Saturday and Sunday was forecast to be just as nice. I’d also recently received a new fishing vest from Cabelas thanks to some credit card reward points. The vest had so far sat quietly and lonely in the corner, quite literally all dressed up with nowhere to go.

And so by 6:30 I was out the door.

I drove up the canyon to the last place I fished, a state park just below and across the highway from the Rise. Last time I was there, snow overhung the banks and crossing the Popo Agie was a relatively easy wade. Yesterday, greenery quietly exploded along the banks with water running fast, deep, and steep. I saw a few promising pools and foam lines but couldn’t get to them without doing some exceedingly stupid riparian acrobatics which, in honesty, the kayaker in me wanted to try. However, the fisherman in me did not want to try, and he was packing a very snag-able vest and waders, infamous for filling with water when submerged. I drove further up the canyon.

At the parking lot I geared up again and headed to the river. I hadn’t been up here since February or March, before the trip to the state park, and then it had been a winter wonderland. Now it was a sublime spring morning in Wyoming.

My policy for spring fishing is to cast beadheads until I have hard evidence that something else is on the menu. This wasn’t the same hardcore jungle fishing like my trip with Willis, down a stretch of Soda Creek in Steamboat thick with brookies, but it was jungle fishing nonetheless and I lost three beadheads to the trees after 30 minutes.

I tied on more tippet and decided to risk it with a fancy (as in, “flight of”) fly I’d tied myself during one of those eternal winter evenings. I’d wrapped some lead around green dubbing and tied in a bizarre horizontal fantail, a Frankenstein on a 16 hook if ever you’ve seen one. Well, I thought, what the hell.

I waded back into the river five yards below a small pool. Watching the foam lines, I spotted movement: a gray slug rising to the line, not broaching the surface, and descending. Uh-huh.

I cast the Frankenstein to it ten or twelve times, sure I’d spooked it, until the line whipped taut. It is the same sensation every time. It is a new sensation every time. It’s why, if I may be poetical, people fish.

The fish darted downstream and my line management was terrible. Rod tip up! Rod tip up! Reel when you can. Rod tip up! I had the fish right at my feet, but somehow I also had at least five feet of line in a tangled mess draping from rod to the water. I saw him for a second: ten inches, maybe. Black spots on a lighter background instead of light spots on a darker background – thus a true trout and not a char (like the gorgeous but misnamed brook trout).

Then the little bastard wriggled off the hook.

Luckily he left the Frankenstein. I moved upstream, and spotted a pool in which there simply had to be a fish. This pool was behind a large rock, beneath a riffle, with plenty of deadfall for shade. This pool was the arbiter by which other trout pools are measured. And six feet below the riffle, slaloming between sun and shade, was a fish.

It would be a tricky cast. Half roll cast, half utter luck, it had to land the line behind the fish but underneath the overhanging branch but place the leader and tippet in line with the eddy and then there was the fly itself, which had to meander into the fish’s path… also, the fish had to decide to eat it.

And after five casts, it did. I managed to pull this one in, touching a fish for the first time this year. It was only 8 inches or so, but it was a rainbow: dark spots over that telltale stripe.

It was ten in the morning. I called it a day.

Planet Earth

For those of you with cable and who aren’t already watching this series, I highly recommend you do so.  It’s fantastic.  It’s on the Discovery Channel.  Watch it, you won’t regret it.

In other news…there is progress in the housing market.  I won’t go into anymore details for fear of jinxing it.  At this point, Paul and I need every leg up and advantage we can possibly get to even have a chance.  Keep your fingers crossed, knock on wood and make some sacrifices to the real estate gods for us. We’ll know more next week.

I’ll take “Things Not Going Our Way” for $200, Alex

I don’t have too much to add to Paul’s post, but while he’s napping on the couch, I have a little bit of time to kill before I head back into the office to do a little bit of work. So, for your enjoyment, here’s my take on the week thus far.

I wasn’t as nauseated about the housing market as Paul, but then again I just may not be thinking about it as much as he is. If I really thought about the price per square foot of the average home here, then I probably would want to throw up. I also think that it sure would be nice to be able to look at a house we’re interested in before it goes under contract. Just once.

I was, however just has saddened by the events at Virginia Tech. I listened to the events transpire via Wyoming Public Radio, and by the time Talk of the Nation came on at noon, I had to switch to regular radio, I couldn’t listen anymore. It reminded me a lot of being glued to a television, moving from class to class, my sophomore year of high school, wondering how on earth someone could walk into a school and just start shooting people. I didn’t understand Columbine, and I certainly can’t even begin to understand this most recent tragedy in our nation’s history. In the grand scheme of things, it makes me wonder what the hell is happening to our society.

I had been waiting to hear about this “promotion” since the beginning of March, which is probably why I’m not taking it as well as I could. Too much build up. Too much thinking about the possibilities. Not enough thinking about what would happen if it didn’t work out. That coupled with the fact that because of my unwillingness to relocate to the Land of Wor, I don’t even get the chance to try for it, despite fellow coworkers encouragement to apply. I simply have to take myself out of the running.

On a positive note, I get to go bowling on Thursday night. Oh, and I get to go to Rock Springs next week for work. Okay…so that may not be so great, but I do get to go to Laramie after that (for a brief meeting) and I might get to meet up with Abbey and Dan or maybe even my old boss from my RAing days.

But that’s next week (the trip, anyway). So, here’s hoping that the rest of the week is filled with new real estate listings and at least a couple strikes (maybe a turkey). I’d even take a spare or two.

I’ll See Your Crappy Day and Raise it By Two!

Monday – Paul comes home from a long day at work, nauseated by Lander’s housing market and the ghastly news out of Blacksburg. Paul proceeds to be very grumpy with Kathryn.

Tuesday – Kathryn learns that a possible career opportunity is limited to those who would be willing to live in a certain town that begins with “Wor” and ends with “land.” Kathryn and Paul know people from there who refer to it, quite cynically, as “Worlando.”

Tuesday, a few minutes later – A colleague of Paul’s (and former bandmate of Kathryn’s) informs Paul and Kathryn that his, the colleague’s, house has appreciated in value by $100,000 in a year and a half.

Look at Me! Look at Me!

Awhile back, while perusing the internet on my lunch break I came across this article. I found it intriguing for several reasons. First, I wondered if my peers and I could be placed in this “Generation Me.” I don’t know if my generation, too young to be labeled as “Gen Xers” even has a label. And if not, is this it? Are we, those in our mid 20s, with our undergraduate degrees (or still working on them), some of us working, some of us in grad school, some doing both, part of this ever increasingly self-centered, narcissistic group?

I’ve touched a little bit on how I feel about some current college student’s (and even high school student’s) sense of entitlement. I don’t feel like I’ve become a great social commentator because of my time as an RA, but I saw a lot in those three years and I can see where these researchers are coming from. The thing is, with all of my observations, I need to remember the residents were still my peers. Some of them only a few years younger (and at times, a few years older) than me, and perhaps I’m just in denial about belonging smack dab in the middle of this new generational label.

Of course, even if I do, technically fit into this generation, I realize that doesn’t necessarily mean I am one of them. But then again, does anyone really come out and say “oh yeah, I am a pretty self-centered, narcissistic person and my favorite subject to talk about is ME?” Probably not. So I quietly worry if I’ve unintentionally fallen into this category.

Secondly, technology is also coming into play more and more. MySpace. YouTube. Facebook. Friendster. Blogs. All are ways for people to bring attention to themselves.

Crap.

I signed up for Facebook the summer after I graduated from college. I saw it as a great way to keep in touch with my friends who were still in college. I started a blog a couple of months after that, realizing I was terrible at writing emails to friends and family and figured this would be a great way to let everyone know what and how I was doing. I also thought it would be a good way to use some sectors of my brain that were slowly going dormant since graduating from college. And now, since moving to Lander, I have also joined MySpace, in an effort to stay in contact with friends I made while living in Denver. Of course, as a result, many of my Facebook friends are also MySpace friends, but in my own rationalization, not all overlap and I really do need both.

While I refuse to stop blogging, I’m becoming especially self conscious about the whole MySpace and Facebook phenomena. Sure, it’s a way for people to stay in contact, I still believe that. But a lot of it is about drawing attention to one’s self, getting people to see what you’re all about.  And I’m just as guilty as the next person. Why don’t I post pictures of me and my family and friends? Why don’t I fill out all these questionnaires and then send them to everyone on my friends list so they can all know what’s my favorite color, if I’m secretly pining away for someone, if I’ve ever been skinny dipping and who the last person I talked to/texted was. Why don’t I start my own blog via my MySpace page?

 

I’ve posted pictures, but have refrained from any sort of survey like questionnaire or starting yet another blog (I don’t need to write in two blogs). If someone really wants to know if I’ve ever been in love, had my heart broken, or what my favorite alcoholic beverage is, they can just ask. I doubt half the people on my friends would read that stuff even if I did send it. If I want someone to read my blog, I want to be a little more selective than anyone who looks at my profile.

So I’ve tried to refrain from as much attention seeking behavior as possible and I keep telling myself my own reasons for joining these social forums, but a part of me worries there are underlying motivations I’m not owning up to. Why do I care how many friends I have, why does it matter how many people have viewed my profile? These thoughts are a little concerning. For the time being, I’ll continue to toy with the idea of deleting my accounts. But in the end, they’ll remain and I’ll feel some weird pang of guilt every time I sign in. I’ll keep my accounts free of any real deeply personal information. At least on Facebook and MySpace. That’s what this blog is for. And in my own defense, the people who read this are a very different group than those who look at just my online profiles.

I don’t know if that makes this any less self-centered and narcissistic, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Why Yes, I Would Like to Keep My Job

I’ve been officially invited back to the school next year. My contract was in my mailbox on Wednesday, and in the spirit of good-natured mockery that has come to define the reading of announcements during my 1st period class, I asked them if I should sign it.

Well, actually, first I toyed with them a little bit.

 ”Alright, gang, listen up. I have some really bad news,” I said from my podium at the front of the class. I even acted kind of bummed out. Their heads snapped up from their iPods, pop tarts, and Science homework.

“This is especially bad for those of you whose grades aren’t so hot.” A few students pointed at their friends or themselves. “Gosh, this is difficult to talk about… I just… I don’t know how to tell you this…”

“Just say it, Mr. P! What’s going on?”

“Unfortunately – and I know this will be hard for some of you to take…” Some kids were literally leaning forward in their seats, eyes wide.

“I’M COMING BACK NEXT YEAR!” I yelled, and waved the contract over my head. “HA! HAHAHAHAHAHA. . . “

Dum Dum Da Dum

My younger sister, Abbey, and her boyfriend, Dan, got engaged this week!  Congratulations you two!  I couldn’t be happier for you guys.  How very exciting! 

This Seems Vaguely Familiar

I still don’t know if we’ve told many people about this blog, but eventually we will and eventually they can read these posts.  With that said… 

Remember way back last summer I tried to get in shape/be healthier/maybe even lose a couple of pounds?  Having a hard time recalling it?  Yeah, well that’s because it lasted, like two seconds.  Triple digit weather in combination with personal/professional crisis lead the way to nights on the couch eating popcorn accompanied with bowls of ice cream instead of nights jogging through my neighborhood or nearby parks followed by a hearty helping of veggies and various proteins. 

So here I am, in a different state, with a different job, and dealing with a whole new set of stressors.  Which ultimately means I’m finding all sorts of new bad habits to help cope with said stressors.  There is hope, however.  Let’s backtrack a bit, shall we? 

When I first moved Lander, Paul and I found out about a new gym that was expanding and reopening.  It just so happens that this particular gym is owned by a guy that Paul knew from high school and a random Geometry class at Casper College.  So, we went to their open house and signed up for a one month membership, picked-up our complimentary windproof earband and signed up for various door prizes.  Paul and I figured we’d try the whole workout thing for a month and would decide how easily we could fit it into our routine. 

Upon arriving for our first afternoon of no-so-intense cardio, the owner and his wife let us know I had won two personal training sessions.  If I wanted, I could share one of sessions with “a friend” and we could use them whenever we felt we were ready to take on a more regimented routine than an elliptical machine or recumbent bike. 

So after months of trying to get in a little bit better shape, Paul and I finally went in to set up our personal training-routine-thing.  Paul and I both had our consultation sessions a couple of weeks ago.  Paul decided to wait to implement his program until the end of the soccer season, but I am trying my best to achieve the goals I talked about in my consultation session.  Increase core and upper body strength.  Increase energy.  Lose the weight I’ve put on since I stopped exercising the last time.  And the cardio (hellooo elliptical machine).   

After last summer’s abject failure, it’s safe to say I d0n’t like running.  I may not enjoy the elliptical machine either but I can at read a magazine or watch TV while I do that.  I may not consider lifting weights and doing crunches to be the most enthralling thing I’ve ever done, but I have to admit I don’t abhor it.  I actually kind of like it.   Plus, the whole having to pay for a membership to the gym is a good reason to go.  Now that Paul and I will be using everything but the climbing wall, I feel even better about our investment. 

In other news, Lander is getting a new bike shop this month and Paul and I are looking at expanding our one bike household to a two bike household.  I’ve been without a bike for a very long time and I’m excited to start riding again.  Lander may not necessarily have designated bike trails, but it seems the general population is more bike c0nscious than Laramie or Denver and the highway up to

Sinks
Canyon has wide emergency lanes on both sides of the road.  There are plenty of places to go, and we don’t have to worry about getting run over by a downtown bus or angry commuter.  

I know I promised last time to keep you all updated on how my running went, and in my own defense, I did update, I just didn’t have much to update about.  This time, though (stop me if you’ve heard this), I think this might stick.

Air Shows

It’s Spring Break around here and frankly it’s about damn time. My first official morning off started pretty well: I slept in until 6, Kathryn and I walked together to her job, and then I returned to the apartment to pay some bills, clean the place up a little, and maybe even enjoy the luxury of seeing a Sportscenter episode in its entirety. Then, around 9:30, I realized something.

 

I could go fishing.

 

Oh, yes. I could go fishing. Sure, there’s still snow on the ground and it’s awfully cold for April 2^nd, but… I could go fishing.

 

I geared up quickly, suddenly feeling that jolt of adrenaline that comes when you realize someone might beat you to a really good idea. The waders went on directly over silk long underwear and waterproof socks, and then I shoved my feet into mocs. With the extra thickness of the socks and wader footsies I felt toenails dig into neighboring toes, painful enough to notice but not enough to prevent me from fishing. Besides, I only needed the mocs for the drive into the canyon – 15 minutes at the outside – and then I’d be in the roomy wading boots. When one wants to go fishing badly enough, one’s pain threshold adjusts.

 

Curtains of precipitation hung over the mountains and canyon entrance. The spot itself was at a state park near the canyon entrance, complete with picnic shelter and that blight of all local fishermen: a damned fee area with that damned fee area sign.

 

I refuse to pay for parking anywhere in Wyoming outside of Laramie. I sure as hell was not going to pay at a fee area 15 miles from my front door. Across the highway was a pulloff normally used by climbers, who are drawn to Sinks Canyon to do remarkably odd things like dangle from cliffs.

 

The Popo Agie was running clear but the banks and most rocks had several inches of snow. I had a weird little green midge already on the line and cast that several times. No joy; I moved up the river 20 yards. As I crossed to the far side, a total distance of 4 yards, a gray dart zipped upstream. I knew there were fish in this river. I just couldn’t prove it yet.

 

I climbed out and gained some height to look for fish. Sure enough, at least three blue-gray squiggles, ten inches long, slid back and forth in front of a large rock. Right where they should be.

 

I cast the green midge into their line of sight. I cast that thing over and over again, so that it dead-drifted right by their fishy noses. No joy. Okay, tie on a different fly. A beadhead, perhaps. A nice emerger. Sure, it’s early in the year, but why not try an emerger? Or should I go with a . . .

 

One of the fish thrashed the surface of a foam line.

 

 

Um. What?

 

Surely the fish weren’t taking terrestrial bugs. Surely there weren’t bugs for the taking. Terrestrial bugs meant dry flies. Dry flies meant fly fishing in its purest, most ethereal form.

 

Surely I wasn’t going to spend my first real day of fishing throwing dry flies. Stranger things have happened, I suppose – the rise of reality television, the Missoula Floods, the Cardinals winning the Series on my dad’s birthday – but surely I haven’t amassed enough credit with the Metaphysical Bank of Karma to deserve catching fish on dry flies on April 2^nd.

 

I tied on a dry fly and peeled off a good cast, right into the foam line. Nothing. Again. Nothing again. I cast and cast and cast, landing the fly exactly where I wanted it, well upstream of the fish and smack dab in the middle of the foam line from which they appeared to be feeding. No joy.

 

My feet were cold. I’d been in the water well over an hour at this point, and it was snowing lightly. I threw the dry one more time. Nothing. Somewhere, I heard a little fishy giggle.

 

Then I remembered that right before I woke up this morning I’d been dreaming about fishing. My friends Dan and Nate and I were much further up in the canyon, at my favorite spot, and we were doing a gear check before heading off for separate sections of the river. Dan wanted to check one more thing before we split up. He picked up a rock and looked at the aquatic bugs underneath it. He told Nate and I to pick flies that looked like those bugs.

 

Now, for the uninitiated out there, Dan’s trick isn’t really a trick; it’s a basic part of fishing. Some people (like me) just get in the water and start throwing bugs. Other fishermen look under rocks first and select flies that way. A voice told me to try it.

 

I picked up a rock and found small, elongated black bugs. A quick check of my fly box revealed a smallish beadhead, no bigger than 18, that looked kind of similar. Why not?

 

I tied on the fly – I’ve been practicing my knot tying in the warm and dry confines of the apartment, and the practice paid off – and cast into the foam line.

 

You’ll hear people speak of lines feeling “electric” when fish strike, and I think that’s a very apt description. When a fish takes your fly the rod sends happy shockwaves into your wrist and thence your soul.

 

The rainbow was not pleased about getting hooked: it put on a little fishy airshow, jumping completely out of the water at least five times as it tried to wriggle the hook out of its mouth. I’ve seen some fish put up fights before, but this particular fish was full-on nuts. Or perhaps I’d just hooked into the Jackie Chan of the fish world. Regardless, it shot downstream and leapt one more time and spit out the hook and went its way.

 

In a way I was okay with that.

Welcome!

Lander received a good healthy whomping of snow late last week, and here it is, April Fool’s Day, and whatever high altitude plants might be budding are doing so under 10 inches of snow. We’re not complaining. These parts have been drier than a Baptist AA meeting for years now, and the winter drought felt especially acute. So we’ll take whatever water we can get. In fact, we’ll take some more if Mother Nature hands it out.

Kathryn did her taxes this morning as yours truly put new line on the fly reel and practiced tying leader and tippet. Dainty hands may be a disadvantage for manly things like rock climbing or throwing tight spirals, but by God I can tie knots with .003 tippet like a fiend.

Welcome to the new blog. Expect more posts more frequently from both of us.